Impending Cataclysm
by the corrupted quiet one
Summary: Set around 5x04 "The End". The future is hell, and Dean just wants the devil dead. Things aren't looking so good, and all matters worsen when Dean from five years ago comes into the picture; and he has a lot to catch up on. But will he understand? Destiel
1. Chapter 1

Five years. Five damn years and still. Still the Colt is missing.

Dean glares down at the maps laid before him, hoping that all the red Sharpie lines and black 'X's will all somehow reveal the gun's location.

The demons move it around, treating it like a game of hot potato. One minute it's in Nebraska, the next somewhere in Vermont, then what was Vancouver... They are unpredictable.

They got smart. They got smart with Lucifer calling the shots, wearing his brother to command his army of vermin and scum. Not even Dean could pin them down, or, when he did, he'd be too late. The Colt would be missing once again, and a good lot of men died along the way.

Maybe they were lucky to die. They got to leave this hell hole world.

This one that could've been avoided.

_It could have if Dean said yes._

He groans, gritting his teeth as his glare intensified, olive stare demanding that the lines reform into a clear answer (or better yet, the Colt itself). His palms compress against his temples, fingers angrily clenching the side of his head, pulling at his burnt honey hair. His injuries, some fresh from venturing outside the fences of Camp Chitaqua, ache; however their pain pales in comparison to the raging headache brought on by the quest for the Colt.

Maybe it's pointless.

Maybe he should give up.

_**No**_, he thinks fiercely, the voice in his mind shouting over the quivering murmurs of doubt; _I'm not giving up... I don't give up..._

As he continues to glower at the maps, scribbles taunting and mocking him, two arms wrap around his neck, hands placed softly on the breast pockets of his beat-up jacket. The weight of the other's forearms rests on his tense shoulders, resting nicely, calmly. Hot breath brushes against the back of his neck, tickling the skin. An earth scent tinges the air, hints of candles, oil, and various other 'natural stress relievers' floating around and sneaking in the stressed leader's nostrils.

That could only be one person.

"Cass," Dean mutters, closing his eyes tightly and massaging his temples harder in hopes the headache would subside. Dealing with Croats is one thing, then there's the burden of the damn Colt, then there's keeping everyone alive... All the thoughts bundled together result in frequent migraines by the time the sun fell.

He hears a soft chuckle, the typical response of a fallen angel under the influence. Even without his wings to fly, Castiel found a way to get high. The things that happened to Castiel when Heaven abandoned all hope...

"So is our fearless leader still smashing his head against walls with this conundrum?" He asks. There's a dreamy tone to his low, gravelly voice, notions of concern mixed in. His hands stroke the pockets, feeling the taut pectorals beneath the layers of thick fabric, attempting to soothe the stiffness with his touch.

Dean merely grumbles, huffs hiding a slur of random swears and mumbles. His arms fall, banging against the table with a clunk. All atop the table-the bunch of beer bottles, the shotgun, the bullets-shakes, metal rattling and glass clattering. His hands clench into fists, tightening, then loosening slightly, only to tighten again and repeat. Castiel's massage only makes him tenser, not in the mood for social interaction after a rough night of failure and hardship.

"You should relax," Castiel suggests. He leans over Dean's shoulder, blowing lightly on his ear.

Year after year, Dean just kept getting worse. He got colder, more determined, more obsessed. Castiel had always been there, and, though he lost his divine power-leaving him drained and, in his eyes, useless-he helped Dean all he could, in whatever way he could. They grew closer, to the point when they were all each other had left. Castiel kept Dean from turning completely cold-blooded, and Dean kept Castiel from cracking entirely. They completed each other.

"UGH..." Dean moans, another dozen hammers banging at his brain. Relaxing was bad, at least to him. No, he can't let his guard down; he must keep thinking and thinking until he finds the Colt. That's what's important, that's what he must focus on, that's why he can't take his mind off the matter for even a moment.

"You missed the orgy," Castiel mentions, mouth right next to Dean's ear. His hands cross across the other's chest, holding Dean in place, pressing his back against the chair and, in turn, against Castiel.

"Boo woo," Dean mumbles, rolling his eyes. Five years ago, he never would've thought he'd pass up orgy invites. But when one happened on a weekly basis, skipping a few meetings wasn't too bad. At least that's what his present mindset told him.

"But it's not much of an orgy without you there," He talks more to himself than to Dean, spouting out the random thoughts that cross his mind. Then, he rests his head against Dean's, cheek pressed against his hair. The warmth lifts some of the pain, a very miniscule fraction but still.

"We have to find the Colt," Dean states, definitive and austere.

This prompts another few chuckles from Castiel.

"We'll find it soon," His optimism makes Dean's stomach sink, sick of soon, needing it now, "But staring at this won't help you at all, nor is straining yourself."

"Well what do you want me to do then?" Dean doesn't realise how bitter he sounds until after the words leave his lips. He's aggravated, he's tired, and he can't take it anymore; but he doesn't want to hear that in his own voice. He doesn't want people detecting how frazzled and fretful is.

It's not as bad as it could be; he only said it around Castiel. And Castiel understood, probably more than anyone else.

Castiel moves his head, then stands up straight, his hands locking over Dean's collarbone.

There's a long pause, neither of the men saying a word, the stillness of the night seeping into the cabin. It's rare that the night is so calm, but the silence surrounds them like an unwelcomed ghost, hovering in the atmosphere, waiting to become viral and infect them.

Dean rolls his head back, opening his eyes to look up. Staring down at him is a pair of blue eyes, eyes bluer than the sky, a blue so pure and bright it could be a glimpse into Heaven. They were Castiel's eyes, his caring, ever watchful gaze shining down on Dean like a ray of morning light. However, these eyes are tired, worn from worry and trouble. Darker circles are forming-or maybe they were always there-adding a sullen gloom to the powerless angel's haggard face. His chin is unshaved, dark stubble foreshadowing a growing beard, meaning a trim in the near future. His hair is, as usual, messy, dark chocolate locks in a constant state of disarray. He swayed a bit as he stood, shoulders and head bobbing from side to side. This scruffy man, unkempt and tousled, was once a mighty and powerful warrior of God. But now, now he was just Castiel, the resident 'therapist' who solved the social problems of the camp with drugs and meditation, with a side of sexual exercises to clear the mind.

A smile curled on his chapped lips, pleased to finally see Dean's face again.

"You could always take a break..." His words are wispy as wind, one of his hands brushing up Dean's neck to caress his cheek. He bends over, craning his neck to maintain eye contact. He stops, face hovering inches above Dean's. Dean smells the marijuana and blackberries on his breath, "I'm always open for a private session. Besides it could be..." He trails off a moment, fingers tapping against the other's earlobe, "_Therapeutic_."

Dean blinks, staring blindly up at him as though he was the sun. His brain processes the offer, pressing through the ache. Somewhere there's a voice-or maybe a few voices-begging him to take the offer, to just let off some steam, to get a little pleasure after so much strain, to spend maybe an hour or two relaxing. It had been a while, longer than he wanted to admit, and the offer was oh just _so tempting_...

"...I think I'm going to go patrol," He says, reaching for the shotgun with one hand and fishing out a handful of bullets with the other. As Dean rises, weaponry in hand, Castiel releases him, drawing back several steps.

He watches in silence as Dean loads the gun, lips pressed in a slanted line, putting him between a frown and a neutral expression. His arms hang limply at his sides, dead weight. He tilts his head watching Dean, the popped collar of his button up shirt rubbing against the side of his face. He continues to stare, curious, looking like he never saw Dean load a gun in his life before (when he'd seen Dean load a gun more times than he'd like). It's between puzzled and pensive, and Dean can feel the gaze. He always feels Castiel's stares, always.

Dean cocks the gun, gripping it firmly and marching towards the door.

He passes Castiel, the fallen angel's eyes still on him, making no effort to move. He hears the floorboards creak behind him, the angel turning around to look at Dean before he leaves. Dean pauses in the doorway, glancing behind him rather than letting the stare burn his back.

"You know, we've been through much, you and I..." Castiel says. With a blink, a smile spreads on his face, "And you know I'll always be here for you."

Dean opens his mouth, but hesitates. Part of him wants to just turn and walk off, clear his head with cool night air, survey the grounds to gain a level head. But then there's another part still wanting to go to Castiel, drawn to him, knowing that, if he did go with him, he would obtain a sliver of happiness-much more than most come across nowadays-and keep from snapping another few days. And then there's the part that's just undecided, the part that wishes that it never had to come to this, that he never had to see his brother walk as the meat suit for Lucifer, see Heaven turn a blind eye and leave, see Castiel loose his wings and part of his sanity. But there's no way of going back, there's no way to turn back time and say yes to avoid this all.

After a few moments, Dean smiles, albeit a troubled half-smile.

"Later," He says, "I'll drop by."

"Of course," Castiel nods.

With that, Dean turns and walks down the steps, letting the door to the cabin slam shut behind him.

* * *

><p><em>Croats<em>.

That's all Dean can think of.

_That place was fucking crawling with Croats._

More than he's seen in a long time and then some.

He pants, pushing through the thick underbrush, eyes peeled for Camp Chitaqua. Thankfully he scraped up a map to match the photo, giving him at least some sense of where the base is. All he had to do was wander in that general direction of the camp; staying in the woods alongside shady roads and hope he didn't make a wrong turn. With only a slice of the moon to cut light through the darkness, it's easy to get lost.

Sharp branches claw at him as he passes, grabbing onto his clothes, always trying to pull him back a few steps, but always either losing hold or snapping. The leaves and twigs crunch and crackle beneath the soles of his boots, foliage disturbed by this human presence.

"Shit..." He murmurs, batting at some of the overhanging limbs, suffering from a few scratches courtesy of Mother Nature's unmanicured children. The wounds aren't deep, most simply scraping the first layer of skin and nothing more, the few bleeding cuts barely letting a trickle of crimson flow out.

He doesn't know how much farther it is. He doesn't know what he'll find. Hell, he doesn't even know what the whole purpose of this time travel crap is. It's one of Zachariah's business presentations on why to "Say _YES_! to Michael," and it's the most annoying one yet.

After a cheerful run in with the Croats and an equally cheerful discussion with Heaven's biggest corporate sleaze, he went to the Singer residence, discovering a vacant home and an empty wheel chair; along with a picture.

A picture of him, Castiel, Bobby, and a few others (hunters he assumes) standing at some summer camp gone Fort Repose. Of course, he can't just drive into the place, oh no. He has to sneak his way there after ditching his car, concealed by the forest and the darkness.

Nothing like a pleasant hike to camp under the moonlight.

His cell phone doesn't work-even if he got some sort of signal who would he call?-and all this is to him is a steaming pile of angelic bullshit. There's always the possibility that this is all just a heavenly movie set, Dean simply plucked from reality and dropped in the middle of some random little fantasy world to run around while hidden cameras surveyed him. And then, at the end of it all, he would be expected to give one big "I learned something today..." speech complete with shaking hands with the archangel.

Still, this angel DeLorean business worked before. Castiel zapped him right back to the seventies to pop in on his mother and father when they were still a couple of kids in love.

_Cass_...

Would calling him work...? Would a prayer summon him now, in the future, just as it did in the present...? Or would he just be wasting his time...?

He takes another few steps, still thinking on the matter when he catches sight of a chain fence. Past the dark trees, he makes out silhouettes of cabins beyond the barrier, landscape fairly flat with traces of civilisation. This had to be the place.

_Later_... He decides, pushing his call desire aside, figuring that everyone would be in the Camp anyway. He could piece together what is supposed to be going on and then judge whether or not he was in another episode of Punk'd.

Dean turns, wandering out from the bushes and onto the dirt road. The pavement disappeared a ways back, leaving him to walk on trodden earth, deep tire-tracks indicating habitation. Just ahead is a sign, old and weathered, the name "Camp Chitaqua" carved unevenly into the wood. Aside from the dank musk of the night, a hint of gun powder permeates the air, tipping him off that whoever lived beyond the rusting chains is armed.

If this is a base for hunters, that's not too shocking.

He saunters up to the gate peering through the many holes in the criss-crossing wires. The place is dark, those dwelling within the wooden walls wanting their home to look abandoned so no one would go snooping. A few windows, behind beige tarp curtains, give off a dim, dim glow, lights still on for those still awake (_God what time is it anyway?_). Trucks and other off-road vehicles sit parked past one of the cabins, boxes and crates stacked high, likely holding necessary goods (food, ammo, clothes; the things that make the world keep going around). Everything, at first, appears unattended, unwatched, _vulnerable_.

But then, he sees someone coming. A figure—approximately his height by rough estimation—patrols the fence area, walking along the border, gun in hand.

Past, present, or future, seeing people with guns is never a good sign.

He ducks back into the brush, hidden from view as the man approaches. He waits, holding his breath, careful not to make a sound. One false move would blow his cover, and then he'd face more angered future folk. He came for answers and safety, not getting his head blown off.

He waits until the heavy footsteps trail off, the patter of boots against dirt quieting as the armed man continues his rounds.

Dean peeks out, double-checking.

The figure keeps walking away, back turned, no sign of glancing back to unleash a storm of bullets on him.

Perfect.

Again Dean steps out to the front of the camp, this time taking a longer look at the site, from the housing to the storage to the transport.

Here he is, here he'll get answers.

As he studies the landscape more, observing a few more of the details, he catches something he overlooked before.

Something utterly alarming, horribly disturbing, and outright criminal.

_The Impala's a wreck._

* * *

><p>He knew he heard something before.<p>

He just _knew _he did.

Which is why, rather than ignoring his instinct and continuing his walk around the perimeter, Dean turned around after a short distance, giving what was out there a false sense of victory so it could waltz right into his trap.

And, low and behold, Dean finds himself staring at the back of an intruder, one who thought he was just so clever waiting for him to walk away and slipping out of the leader's keen eye.

Dean isn't just an amateur run-of-the-mill security guard.

Whoever snuck on to the grounds has an affinity for cars. Good cars, too, like his baby, now broken down, rusting, and covered with nature. Even though the Impala's time came to an end and she now sat decaying, acting as her own memorial, no one touches her.

_No one._

Especially not filthy demon sons of bitches.

He's stealthy, sneaking up on the man without making a sound. He knows the game; he knows how to move like a ghost and then strike like a wolf. The distress of the intruder made it all the easier to creep up on him. The man-or whatever he was-too distracted by the car to notice, is a sitting duck, easy prey for the skilled hunter Dean Winchester.

Over and over, he hears him groaning about the car, mimicking Dean's voice, mourning the vehicle.

_It's an act_, Dean thinks, _just an act._

Demons pull stunts like this all the time. Might even be another monsters; they didn't all split when the end of the world kicked off.

Could be a lot of things but not a single one of them is one Dean wants crawling around in his camp, his refuge for the last good people alive. This place is a monster-free zone and he plans on keeping it that way.

Guns work in many ways and, rather than shooting him down on sight, Dean packs all the force he can into banging the stock against the other's head.

It only takes one hit and he's down, out cold.

Dean gazes down at the man crumpled on the earth, arms spread on the seat of his beloved car. Though the lighting isn't the best, Dean can see the striking, uncanny resemblance: same kinds of clothes, same stature, same hair, _same face_.

He looms over, blinking slowly, ensuring that his eyes weren't tricking him. Still, the man splayed over the driver's seat looked the same, no mistaking it.

Dean just knocked out another Dean.

Even with a few possibilities out of the way, the choices aren't narrowed down much more.

The only way to find out who-or what-he's dealing with is to run some tests. Tests that would go on for several hours, take up most of the night, and leave him with a creature to interrogate in the morning, not to mention keep guard of. And, since the others have enough on their plates as is, Dean will do all of this _himself_.

There's only one thing he can say about this mess.

_"Son of a __**bitch**__..."_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And I present more adventures in my interest in this fandom. Yay. "The End" is one of my favourite episodes and I really find the 2014!verse captivating! And come on, Destiel happened on the road to 2014 amirite. I just really wanted to toy around with this, okay? **

**Thank you for reading! I know it might have confused you a little switching from between Deans (yeah get used to it, sorry) and I normally don't write present tense, but still thank you. I do hope you leave a review and I'll hopefully be working on this a little more. It shouldn't be too too long, and I don't know just what'll happen (so Imma leave it T for now) so we'll see! ~CQO**


	2. Chapter 2

He ran all the tests.

Every single one.

And not a trace of anything monstrous or demonic showed up.

None at all.

Dean glowers at his doppelganger, infuriated by the lack of solid results. His head numbs; all the strenuous thought and toil over this predicament exhausting his brain to such a point that all the pain just stopped. Salt, holy water, demon knives... Careful and thorough tests coming up negative each time.

He keeps his eyes on the unconscious clone, hoping that if he glares hard enough he'll realise what the answer to this epic little mystery is. His double lays unaffected by the gaze, unaware of the tests performed or the cuffs binding his wrists to the headboard of a bunk bed.

Dean picked an empty cabin to stow his look-alike, one he barely uses but has claim to. The seclusion gives him a chance to leave the second Dean out in the open, out where he can freely look upon him and think without the worry of someone walking in.

Something's not right, that's guaranteed.

Whatever's going on, this _other_ Dean reeks of it; he gives off a suspicious and fishy odour that taunts Dean to no end. The results don't help, every test clean as a whistle.

Why, he was positively _human_.

But that doesn't add up; because how could there be an exact copy of Dean? With the same _clothes_? The same _weapons_? The same goddamn _face_? There's no logic to it, the whole mess a heap of nonsense.

Of all the things Dean's seen in his life—and he's seen _a lot_—this crosses a new line. A line that just appeared out of the blue to make his life all the more difficult (as if he didn't have enough to worry about already).

And that pisses Dean off like no tomorrow.

New stuff doesn't come out of nowhere, not anymore.

He knows all there is to know and by god if he missed the memo on something he'll have someone's head. Namely Lucifer's.

_Maybe he's immune..._ He thinks bitingly. Demons immune to this isn't possible, though. Monsters immune is just as unfeasible. There's some missing link that eludes him and not knowing kills him a bit more with each passing moment.

The more he thinks, the less light shines on the answer. Every new idea has some flaw, and somehow diverts him from the real answer. He knows he's being led away, but whenever he tries something new it backfires completely, making him feel more lost.

His deduction won't prevail, not this time. All his reasoning wanders astray in a thick haze, lost and far from the truth, making Dean slowly going insane.

_Answers, answers, where the fuck are you?_

And then, somehow, for some reason, through some outlandish train of thought, he thinks of Castiel.

Somewhere in his drifting thoughts, the angel crossed his mind, and still he remains with him, an apparition in the fog. He follows Dean, acting as either a mirage to take him away or a guide whispering directions to the light. Dean isn't sure which he's trying to do.

"You need to relax," Castiel's voice coos in his mind, sounding so lifelike Dean swears he's standing right next to him. Dean could see him, see him in his mind, body tired but eyes bright, "If the leader falls into mental depression, then what are the rest of us to do?"

Castiel is right. He's not even there but he's right. At least about the camp.

If Dean falls off, then everyone else will have to go on. Just how well they'll fair without him worries him, not entirely confident in the leadership of humankind's stragglers. Especially considering the enemy at hand.

Maybe he should listen to the angel in his head.

Maybe relaxing isn't such a bad idea.

Maybe it would be okay to step out for a minute—whatever's back there isn't moving and won't shake the cuffs.

Maybe it would help him so he could figure this out later and kill it.

Maybe he could just go to his appointment hastily arranged with the fallen angel.

When it clicks with Dean that he did sort of say he'd pop in on Castiel, he realises that he's already left the cabin and walked halfway to the angel's.

It dawns on him that he's being reckless and irresponsible, endangering the camp by leaving an unidentified creature without any form of supervision.

It also dawns on him that he's at the angel's door.

Well, it's not so much a door as it is a curtain. The screen of beads allows Dean to see in, shadowy forms marking furniture. Judging from the dimmer light and tantalising aroma, Castiel only has a couple of rather potent candles lit. Those sorts of things relax the women in camp (usually the scents of ancient candles marked an orgy session); but Dean never was much of a fan. But he knows that scent, that specific smell, the one that was least repulsive of the hoard and the brand Castiel only used when Dean was coming. It just turned into a stupid little tradition Dean doesn't remember starting.

Rather than spending valuable time staring at silhouettes behind a veil, Dean steps in. The beads lightly clack together, a sound so rhythmic that it loosens his muscles a little. The room is as messy as ever, Castiel forgetting his neatness when he fell. It wasn't a big deal, he didn't have to keep things clean anymore, it wasn't his job. After losing all power, all the might of the no nonexistent Heaven, he suffered immensely. But he still gives his all for the team. He does it in his own way, but it's all he can do. He isn't the same Castiel from the years before the end, but Dean isn't the same man either.

Castiel lies on some deflated pillows on the floor, eyes shut, hands on his stomach. On a table sits the candle, the glowing rays illuminating the angel's face with soft light. He looks so relaxed, at peace, so much that it feels artificial. No one here really gets serenity, not truly.

"Dean," Castiel knows Dean well enough to recognise his footsteps. He can recognise anything about Dean in a heartbeat, down _to_ the heartbeat.

Dean freezes, barely two steps through the door. He just stares at Castiel, jaw locked, waiting for him to speak again. Dean might have been the leader of the group but he barely led anything when it came to Castiel. That always flows and steers its own course.

A blue eye opens, shiny and luminous. A corner of his lip curls, a sly half-smirk appearing in mere seconds.

"I knew you'd come," He says, purring like a cat.

"I usually do," Dean states sternly.

Castiel senses the tension in his voice and flattens his smile. He blinks, both sapphires shimmering and set on Dean. A mixture of compassion and plain passion swirls in those eyes, offering the other to let of some steam either verbally or physically.

"And patrol?" Castiel rises, groaning a bit as he stretches his legs.

"Fine," Dean doesn't hesitate nor does he answer too abruptly. His timing is perfect, strategically planned for the ideal deliver. Amazing how saying one word could shape an entire atmosphere.

Still, it doesn't fully satisfy Castiel. He narrows his eyes a bit, gaze intensifying. He looks the other up and down, some invisible lie detector scanning Dean over. Just because he isn't as powerful as he once was didn't mean he could be fooled that easily. And something is a little off somewhere, just a small hint.

"No Croats?" He saunters towards him. As he walks into the darker corners of the room, the flame behind him makes his outline glow.

"You didn't hear me blowing off any heads," Dean grumbles, "Stop screwing around, Cass."  
>"I'm just making sure you're alright," Castiel's tone lowers, "Shockingly I still care about you even though half the time you verge on being a psychotic maniac." He learned sarcasm when he learned how to use a bong, something Dean somewhat regrets.<p>

"If I'm not allowed to label you, you can't label me, either," Dean rolls his eyes.

"You gave up, remember?" Castiel reminds him, "You said you were over trying that."

"I say a lot of things," Dean says.

Castiel stops, staring up at Dean. He breaks the barely enforced personal space rule, bubbles conjoining, only a few inches separating their faces. Both men are serious, exchanging pensive, intense looks. Dean's eyes reveal not his secrets but his tension, so overwhelmed by the anxieties that the details of them didn't matter. Castiel on the other hand remain calmer, the suspicion ebbing but not fully gone. Strained as they could be and as pressing as their relationship seemed, undertones of love accent everything. A warped love, maybe, but still love. That's the closest word they could think of to define it.

"You said a few things to Risa recently," Castiel mentions. They weren't exactly exclusive to one another, not that they could be in a world like theirs. There were many times when they wished they could be, but both know such wishful thinking was pure foolishness. But so are a lot of things they do.

"You had an orgy," Dean points out.

"Touché," He rolls his shoulders, "Though sometimes I don't know who's getting the sweet nothings and who's getting the real thing."

Doubt, that's what Dean hears, doubt. Castiel doubts that he's the most important one to Dean. He has rights to be, more than Dean can count on his fingers.

But part of him just wants to bang his head against a wall because he doesn't want to deal with smaller details like this. He doesn't want to explain himself whenever. He doesn't want his loyalty questioned. He just wants the only form of slight relief to be as stress free as possible.

Like that's even plausible.

"You drown yourself in women and I can't even do one?" Dean asks, tone both annoyed and teasing.

"It's sort of my job," Castiel raises a brow.

"I didn't know you got jealous," A wave of amusement washes through him at the thought. The muscle tension lowers.

"I don't," Castiel frowns, "You're the jealous one."

"Me?"

"You mentioned before how I got more women than you."

"We're not teenage guys; I don't care how many girls you screw."

"It sounded like you did for a minute."

"You're not helping, you know."

"Your jealousy?"

"I didn't come here so you could poke at things that don't exist."

"Right," The smirk returns to Castiel's face, "Our session."

"Yeah," Dean replies, the angel's warm touch sending sensations through his hand. Castiel holds one hand tenderly, lacing his fingers with Dean's. His other hand rests on Dean's side, fingers tapping on the jacket.

Then, Castiel kisses him, lips pressing together gingerly, warmly, lovingly. Moments the two share alone are the dearest ones they have, the only true highlights of happiness they find anymore. There really isn't anything to be happy about anymore, only to be thankful for. They're thankful they lasted, thankful they were both alive, thankful they still had each other. Nowadays, that equated to bliss.  
>Dean's body relaxes, shoulders slouching, muscles loosening. He squeezes Castiel's hand, kissing back with a little extra force before the angel draws back.<p>

Dean licks his lips and watches the other smile, satisfied with the remarkable amount just a peck on the lips did. Castiel could—and would—do more, though. Much more.

"Is this more what you had in mind?" Castiel enquires, hand sliding down to Dean's hip.

He doesn't reply, not verbally. Dean stares at Castiel a long moment, lips parted, eyes glistening. He wants it, there's no way around that. That kiss riled up the dormant part of him that always yearns for Castiel with lust and love. But still, he hears another voice—likely reason—scolding him for leaving his post.

Because that is such a stupid thing to do and why on earth is he still biding time with a stoner angel?

Oh, right, _feelings_. Dean still has those. Beneath the obsessive compulsive need for finding the Colt and the brutal willingness to stand in the front lines, he still feels things.

Castiel reminds him that on a daily basis.

_Screw it..._

For once, just once, he decides to do what the old Dean might have done. He assumes the cuffs'll hold and he can just deal with the whatever that was later. He could have one damn break, just to keep from falling apart. Just for now.

Dean claims Castiel's lips as an answer to his question, arm snaking around to place a hand on the small of his back. Their kiss is rougher, far more forceful, Dean channelling all his frustrations into it in hopes they'd just run out and leave him. They disperse for now, hiding away somewhere else, Dean far too occupied by the lips pressing back on him to care where they went. He just wants them gone.

One kiss turns to many, starting long lasting and dying into quick and hungry. With Castiel leading, the two peddle away from the doorway, away from where people might see, away from the outside world. The cushions are safe, welcoming, begging for them to come lay down.

Castiel lets go of Dean's hand, reaching up to toy with his collar and slither under his jacket. With a hand free, Dean fiddles with the bottom buttons of Castiel's shirt. He gets a few undone before the angel spins, turning Dean's back to the cushions, and lightly pushes him down.

Dean sinks into the pillows, the flattened sacks of cotton moulding to fit his form. Castiel's on top of him, kissing him, touching him, undressing him. Dean just goes along with it, clearing his mind of everything as the angel peppers his face with kisses. He mindlessly undoes the buttons, already aware of the routine, following the typical procedure.

Sex lost emotional, sentimental meaning a long time ago, the act of physical affection degrading into just another outlet of stress relief that held little meaning. Maybe if the world wasn't ending and if Lucifer wasn't terrorising what was left of humanity, Dean and Castiel would have a relationship similar to lovers. If the world didn't spiral into chaos and discord, hadn't turned into a grim horror, wasn't a barren wasteland inhabited with Croats and demons; then perhaps they could be truly in love.

But not anymore, destiny had other plans. And so the love they feel, the significance they hold for one another, the questionable dependence they have on each other, is refracted in the waters of their circumstances and forever distorted.

Now Dean, as he runs his hands over the Castiel's bare back, verges on ruthlessness on a regular basis. Now he doesn't feel as much, going so far as to pick up his old Hell habit of torture if it meant getting the Colt. He does things that he wouldn't have done in the past. All because of that one little gun and that one shot he had at stopping Lucifer. Even if he wore Sam's skin, that wasn't Sam inside him.

Sam was dead, Dean had changed.

Everyone changed.

While Dean gave up emotions, Castiel just plain gave up. He does what he can to help—including things like kissing down Dean's chest and rubbing his thighs—but resorting to lower means of aid when, if he still had the power, he could smite legions of demons doesn't sit well.

Now Castiel, as his lips brushed up and down Dean's skin, is useless. He can't fight nearly as well as the others, he would just weigh the team down when they least needed. Drowning himself in women and other luxuries is how he puts off the thoughts of what he could do, able to hide the things he could do in a fog of smoke and under a group of girls. As long as he's stoned, he can ignore it enough.

And when the two get together, the now ruthless and the now useless, they're able to blur out what they've become and find a demented comfort. It's easier to forget this way. They don't know why—they'll never know why—but that's just how it is. They don't question it.

That's why they do it.

That's why they do this.

That's the reason they seek each other's company.

The reason they, on occasion, spend nights in one another's arms.

The reason they haven't cracked completely.

Because a few hours rubbing against each other for comfort and pleasure kept them from falling over the edge.

It's a miracle how long the system's lasted.

And, when they both lay down on the heap of pillows, clothes tossed aside, Castiel virtually asleep, Dean wonders how long he can keep this up. How long this can last. How long until everything broke.

He knows he won't get his answers now, as much as he wants them, but he knows the quickest way to solving his problems is to go back to find out what the intruder is. It isn't unusual for him to shuffle out without a proper goodbye, most encounters ending that way.

So, he collects his clothes, unsure whether he puts on his shirt or Castiel's, and leaves, focused once again on more important matters.

Like what's sitting in his cabin.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Weeeeeeell it took longer than I thought but I updated. And since it's got vague sexual content I'm bumping it up to M (I'm sorry if you're disappointed). But that's not important. Again this is supposed to be a shorter story but I didn't feel like cramming more into this chapter.**

**Thank you for reading! Do leave a review! I know it's not perfect, but I'm trying (especially since this is more or less what happened off screen of the episode which is kinda hard). Yeah anyway thanks again! **


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